


Safekeeping

by riventhorn



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt at the_eagle_kink: Marcus feels hurt and betrayed by Esca's actions when they meet the Seal Clan. One night, he calls out Esca's name, and Esca hears him. He cannot help going to Marcus, despite the danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safekeeping

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended, no profit is being made from this
> 
> I used the alternate ending of the movie for this, where they destroy the Eagle instead of bringing it back

After those first outraged shouts, Marcus didn’t voluntarily cry out, no matter what they did to him. But he watched Esca, silently asking what was happening, his expression a muddied blur of confusion, pain, and growing fear. And Esca had to turn away and remain silent, couldn’t answer any of Marcus’s questions, could only observe as the Seal People inflicted their calculated torment and humiliation.

He could hear Marcus stumbling along behind one of the horses, his hands bound in coarse rope, his breath wheezing harshly.

“The slave is clumsy,” Liathan remarked. “Are you sure he marched in a Legion?”

Esca sensed the hidden traps, the doubt, in his words. “Yes. He was wounded.”

Liathan professed surprise. “And you kept him? Surely he cannot be worth much in such condition.”

“Death would have been an honor he did not deserve,” Esca said flatly, and Liathan nodded, soon turning his attention to other matters. But Esca could not close his ears to the sound of Marcus struggling, and his shoulders grew tight whenever Marcus fell and was dragged along the ground before he could manage to regain his feet. His leg must be paining him by now, Esca knew.

It grated against some hidden part of him, to see Marcus treated in such a way. Months ago, he would have delighted in seeing a Roman humiliated, but Marcus wasn’t just a Roman, he was _Esca’s_ to look after, Esca’s to protect. He wasn’t sure when he had begun feeling this way about the Centurion, but now the instinct beat strongly within him. No matter how stubborn and infuriating Marcus could be, no matter that he had dragged Esca along on this mad chase after the Eagle, expecting him to turn against his own people—he cared deeply for him. And he tried to communicate this to Marcus—that he did not want to see Marcus hurt, that he would never abandon him. But tenderness and affection was forbidden under the watchful eyes of the Seal People, and Marcus only knew that Esca had spoken to the warriors who had then bound him tightly.

*

Fog rolled over them as they trudged along, and then the rain began, sheeting down in an endless torrent. They managed to find a protected overhang for their camp, but Marcus was kept outside in the rain, hands still tied. The warriors often hit or kicked him when they drew near, casual acts of dispassionate violence. Marcus flinched and hunched his shoulders, body shaking with the cold.

Esca sat near the fire and ignored him, laughing with Liathan over hunting stories. At last they rolled themselves in their blankets, and he was free to turn his face outwards, to try and decipher the outline of Marcus in the dark. Midway through the night he rose to relieve himself, and he crouched by Marcus on his way back. He was asleep, exhaustion overcoming the cold, curled into a miserable ball. Esca touched his shoulder, careful not to wake him, mindful of the sentries perched on the rocks above.

“I will keep you safe,” he breathed in a voice softer than a whisper. “But you will not understand.”

*

The village stank of fish, and the endless susurrus of the waves filled the air. His heart beat faster as they moved through the Seal Clan’s village and approached the chieftain’s lodge. This would be the true test. Esca’s rights as a guest were strong, but were they strong enough to protect a Roman in the face of a sworn enemy, a man who had wetted his blade in Roman blood?

Marcus held his head high, and Esca wanted to scream at him to show some humility even as he burned with pride at Marcus’s refusal to submit. But it was dangerous, so, so dangerous. Better that Marcus were cowed and dull, too pitiful to snag the chieftain’s enmity.

Yet all went well. The chieftain said his piece, taunting Marcus in a cutting tone so that it did not matter if he understood or not. Esca moved to follow the chieftain into his tent, and then Marcus called after him in a desperate voice.

He had to turn back. He had to answer. But why did it have to be in such a public place, with all of the village watching?

“You’re my slave,” he told Marcus, and even to his ears it sounded smug and triumphant. Marcus’s eyes widened, and he moved quickly to cut off whatever protests, whatever questions Marcus might voice.

The warriors dragged Marcus away, and he struggled. They were not gentle with him. Esca forced an air of unconcern and ducked into the lodge.

*

Aquila’s villa had been spacious, open, empty—Esca had forgotten the closeness of village life, the constant presence of people. The lack of privacy forced him to keep his interactions with Marcus to a minimum, giving him orders in a brusque voice and then leaving.

Marcus had stopped asking him questions, just listened silently, but he could still see shreds of hope in Marcus’s eyes—hope that Esca was playing a part, that he had not really betrayed him.

 _It’s true_ , Esca longed to say. _Only a little longer, my friend. This is the only way—the only way to keep you safe and find the Eagle._

But it was hard on Marcus. Esca could tell that his leg was bothering him. He limped all the time now, stumbling over the stony ground. And he wasn’t getting enough to eat, just scraps of food. Esca could not be seen saving food for his slave, not when he was supposed to be teaching the recalcitrant Roman how to submit. Marcus grew pale and drawn, his hands rubbed raw by the cold wind and the hard work.

A few of the younger warriors continued to torment Marcus—tripping him, shoving him, poking him with their spear shafts. Esca did not protest. He knew that none of them would take it too far and risk insulting Liathan’s guest by damaging his property. And nothing they did was out of bounds for the treatment of an insubordinate slave and a Roman at that. One of the Epidaii, though, observed Marcus with eyes like flat, grey river stones. His name was Cailean, and Esca knew that his father had been killed in the same battle where Marcus’s father had lost his life. Cailean harbored a deep hatred for the Romans. To have Marcus in the village, protected by only the bounds of custom, was like dangling a piece of meat before a dog. So Esca kept a close eye on Cailean and tried to keep Marcus away from him.

He could not guard Marcus every hour of every day, however. The same custom that gave Marcus a tenuous protection demanded that Esca go hunting with Liathan and spend long hours in the chieftain’s lodge, eating and drinking and being regaled with tales of the Seal Clan’s prowess in battle.

It was on his return from a long morning of hunting with Liathan—and a fruitless chase it had been—that he knew something was wrong. He did not see Marcus when he crested the ridge above the village, though he had set him the tedious task of untangling fishing nets, a job that should have occupied him for hours. Marcus usually preferred to sit on the extreme edge of the village, near the shore, away from the smell of smoke and fish. But he was not there now. And as Esca passed through the village there were many who would not meet his eyes, who fell silent, their faces troubled.

Brighde, the wife of one of the warriors finally stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. “There has been trouble with your slave, Esca, son of Cunoval,” she said.

It felt as though an iron band was tightening round his chest, squeezing off his air. “What has happened?” he managed to say and hoped that those watching mistook the tremor in his voice for anger. “Has my slave given offence?”

“Not directly, no,” she replied quietly and tugged Esca’s arm, leading him to the hut where Marcus had been given a thin pallet to sleep on. “Cailean gave way to an old anger, and your slave bore the brunt of his fury.”

“He is not—” Esca’s throat seized up before he could say the word, but in the next second it transpired that his fears were unfounded, for there was Marcus, resting against the side of the lodge, watching him approach.

Perhaps there was reason for some fear, though, Esca thought as he knelt down, for Marcus’s face was white with pain, and he held himself gingerly, wincing at the slightest movement.

“Show me,” Esca commanded in the Roman tongue.

The muscles in Marcus’s jaw twitched as he lifted his tunic, revealing reddened and swelling skin, already darkening with bruises. He’d been kicked in the ribs, not once, but many times. And there were blood stains on his tunic—Esca turned him around, too forcefully, but he needed to _see_. He’d been beaten with the shaft of a spear, ugly welts criss-crossing his shoulders. In some places the skin was broken, and blood swelled to the surface, trickling slowly down his back.

“He would not let any of us touch him,” Brighde said.

Marcus spoke then, the first words he had said directly to Esca in days. “I—I had done nothing. Esca, why—why must we—”

The sound of booted feet on stone heralded Liathan’s arrival, and Marcus fell silent again, flinching back involuntarily.

And this was the worst of all—the trembling fear in Marcus’s voice and the submissive hunch of his shoulders. His resistance was wearing down—ah! how well Esca remembered it from the first days of his own servitude, stranded in a strange place with the threat of death and pain hanging over him. But he, at least, had been in the company of other Britons whom he could speak to and commiserate with over their shared lot, and then Marcus had found him and regarded him with trust and kindness. Here, Marcus thought himself all alone, for his belief in Esca’s loyalty was slipping away, too, like sand dragged back into the dark waters by the tide.

“Accept my apologies for Cailean’s actions,” Liathan said in a voice stiff with pride. “He should not have done so. He has disappeared into the hills but will apologize as well when he returns or I shall know the reason why.”

Esca stood up and faced him. “It is nothing—no more than my slave deserved, I have no doubt. He shall be well trained to my hand soon.” And he laughed and smiled and felt shame crawling in his stomach.

Liathan nodded. “The slave is a troublesome creature.” The glance he turned towards Marcus was full of scorn.

“You will let them tend to you,” Esca told Marcus. “And let me hear no more of your disobedience.”

*

Esca slept in Liathan’s lodge in the privileged place nearest the fire. But this night he could not find rest and finally rose, slipping out into the cold dark. He made his way to the hut where Marcus had his pallet and crouched by the door a moment before silently raising the flap. The other occupants were all asleep, most lying together for warmth. Marcus lay a short distance away, huddled under a thin blanket. He was lying on his stomach to spare his injured back. Esca could not tell if he was awake or asleep.

And then Marcus shifted, and the coarse wool rubbed across the welts, and he made a small noise of pain. He would never have done so in the daylight, Esca knew.

He could barely make out Marcus in the dark, but he thought he saw him reach for the carved wooden eagle hanging around his neck and grasp it tightly.

“Esca,” Marcus whispered, and he started, thinking that Marcus had seen him, but no, Marcus’s attention was all on the eagle cradled in his hands.

Marcus sighed his name again, and the sound tore into Esca’s heart. It was a hurt and lonely sound. And he could not turn away. He needed to soothe away this pain, needed to touch Marcus with gentle, caring hands. Carefully, crouching near the ground, he moved inside and made his way to Marcus’s side.

Marcus jerked in surprise when Esca put his hand on his shoulder, but he laid his fingers against Marcus’s mouth, warning him to keep quiet.

“You’ll grow too cold,” he murmured, sliding under the blanket next to Marcus. “Come. Come here.”

“You have not turned against me then?” Marcus asked in a choked voice.

“No, but what could I do?” Esca pressed closer, fitting their bodies together, mindful of Marcus’s bruised ribs. “I had to tell them a lie they would believe or they would have killed you.”

“In my heart I believed this,” Marcus whispered fervently, putting a tentative arm around Esca. “But I was afraid—”

“Shhh or the others will wake.” Esca felt slowly at the edges of Marcus’s back, and then rubbed his shoulder. Marcus ducked his head against Esca’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into Marcus’s hair. “So sorry you’ve been hurt.”

“No, no, I owe my life to you,” Marcus replied.

One of the sleeping forms stirred, and they fell silent. He could feel the tension draining out of Marcus’s body and longed to stay the night, but it could not be. Too soon, he pushed reluctantly away. “I must go back.”

Marcus caught his arm. “Do you think they have the Eagle?”

“If they do it is hidden. But we shall find it,” Esca told him and then faded into the night. He returned to his blankets, and although no words were said, he knew Liathan was watching him.

*

The next day, Marcus’s steps were lighter as he went about his duties, and the frightened look was gone from his eyes. It eased something in Esca to see this. And that night, though he knew he shouldn’t, he made his way to Marcus again.

“Here, lie close,” he said, and he shifted until he was partly underneath, so that Marcus’s back wasn’t irritated.

“I’m tired of the cold and the rain,” Marcus admitted, sighing and fitting a cold hand under Esca’s arm.

“It will be warmer when we return to the south,” Esca promised.

“We shall return there—” It was almost a question.

“We shall return.”

*

The following night, he stayed in Liathan’s lodge, and he thought Marcus looked wearier the next day. Perhaps he had laid awake, waiting for Esca, and when he didn’t come—

So in the dark he went to Marcus again.

When he felt Marcus’s arousal against his thigh as they held each other, he was unsure what to do at first. It was only a reaction to their present physical closeness, perhaps, to the long months of travel and toil far from any chance of a coupling. He moved his hand down, intending to give relief. Marcus stopped him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and Esca could hear his embarrassment.

“Let me.” He smoothed a hand over Marcus’s hair. “You are not a red-haired girl from Caledonia, it is true, but I do not find you so unpleasant to the eye.”

Marcus chuckled. “Unwashed and unshaven as I am? I imagine I stink of fish.”

“We all stink of fish,” Esca returned wryly. He tugged at the laces of Marcus’s braccae and wriggled his hand inside, meeting hot flesh.

“Ah!” Marcus said sharply and then buried his face in Esca’s neck.

His panting breath, the slickness of his shaft—Esca felt his own rising in response. He pushed up against Marcus’s thigh, rubbing, and the next he knew Marcus was moving on top of him, bunching up his tunic and untying his laces. And then it was only a daze of pleasure, their bitten-off groans, and the smell of their sweat and heat.

Marcus stretched out atop him afterwards, a heavy weight that Esca did not care to move. He nuzzled Esca’s cheek. “ _Solamen_ ,” he murmured, and Esca’s throat grew tight.

He held Marcus and wished they were far away from this place, somewhere quiet and safe where he could learn the contours of Marcus’s body with his fingers and explore this new development between them. Was it unexpected? In some ways, but he already had known the bond between them was a close one. Small wonder that the past weeks had drawn them even closer together.

But what he wished for could not be, not yet. He must leave Marcus and go back to the deceptions and half-truths that littered his existence here.

Stumbling out of the lodge, still fumbling to do up his braccae, he realized that Liathan was standing there, regarding him in silence. Esca froze.

“I wondered where you took yourself at night,” he commented and then laughed. “Perhaps now I understand more clearly why you kept the Roman cur.”

Esca forced out a laugh, said, “The slave has learned to use his mouth well,” and cringed inwardly, wondering if Marcus could hear them, and if he could, what he would make of their derisive laughter.

*

All might have been well if Liathan’s sister had not chosen to go down to the shore on the following day, if Marcus had not gone to his usual spot to clean fish, if Liathan had not walked by the moment when Marcus raised his head and smiled. But these things did happen.

Liathan struck Marcus, hard enough to knock him to the ground. Marcus scrambled back up, wary, an angry light in his eyes. He glanced at Esca, though, and some of the tension faded. He did not believe Esca would let Liathan harm him, and he waited for Esca to speak on his behalf.

Esca’s heart sank.

As Liathan spat out his insults, his offence at the slave’s behavior, Esca knew what he must do. Slowly, he turned and regarded Marcus, who waited, confused, but trusting.

He hardened his voice. “Kneel!”

Marcus did not obey, disbelieving still.

Esca hit him.

He knew that a delicate web had been forming between them, the pattern growing over the long months as new threads were added: gratitude for Marcus’s trust, the urge to protect, the sound of Marcus’s laugh, feeling his heart pounding against his palm as they lay together. But now the web was torn, rent in one quick, violent movement. Esca mourned its destruction, even as he shouted again, “Get on your knees!”

Marcus dropped his head and slowly sank to the ground. Stepping forward, Esca yanked his head back, exposing his throat. He could feel the tremors in Marcus’s body, see his throat working against the urge to struggle. Marcus couldn’t understand his words to Liathan, telling him to kill Marcus if he wished, but it did not matter—Marcus comprehended the intent of the gesture.

He must believe that Esca had tricked him, coming to him, saying sweet things in the dark, only so that he could take his pleasure from a willing body as opposed to forcing a slave to do as he wished. The laughter between Esca and Liathan outside the lodge the night before must seem horribly clear to Marcus now. He must see it as proof of Esca’s treachery, for now Esca had beaten him and was offering his life like a worthless bauble, compensation over an imagined slight.

These terrible thoughts, Esca pushed from his mind. He could not afford to be distracted. For if Liathan did choose to strike, he must be ready to act. They would have little hope, surrounded by warriors, few weapons near to hand. But at least Marcus would know that he had never truly betrayed him, and they would have a few moments of understanding and forgiveness before death claimed them.

Instead, Liathan let it pass, and they were left drowning in the murky waters of their desperation. He could not bear to look at Marcus, pushing him away instead. But Marcus’s low, furious voice followed him: “When I get the chance, I will kill you.” He turned, unable to help himself, and their eyes met.

If it happened that Marcus found such a chance, Esca would not fight it. Meeting his end at the hand of one so dear would be bitter and yet soothing, the fear assuaged by the presence of a familiar warmth close beside him.

*

But at last, fortune favored him. He did not find death but a wild, lucky chance to claim the Eagle and regain Marcus’s trust. Of course Marcus—stupid, foolish, _brave_ —lost his head and charged into the midst of the warrior’s dance. Esca, watching from the opposite side of the cove, could only bite back a shout and pray that he wasn’t killed. But it looked to be a glancing blow to his head that knocked him out and sent him reeling to the sand.

At last he could go to him, shaking him awake, whispering, “Marcus, it’s time. We have to do this now.”

Marcus startled, frightened, disoriented, half-expecting another blow. His eyes begged the truth of Esca: _Can I trust you?_ And all Esca wished was to gather him close, close enough to smell his scent and feel that gentle strength that Marcus commanded, and tell him _yes, yes you’re safe in my care now._

But as always, time nipped at his heels. “This is our only chance, while they’re asleep,” he told him.

Marcus glanced away an instant before turning back, and his next words settled quietly on the air between them. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Forgiveness—that was the sweet balm that seemed to flow around Esca’s heart—forgiveness, and the chance that perhaps he had not ruined things between them forever. What words of his could possibly match such a gift? So he handed Marcus a sword and helped him to his feet, scanning the sleeping warriors around them. For a few moments there, all else had faded around them, but now the precariousness of their situation returned.

The danger never lessened, not once the Eagle was captured, not as they fled south, a howling of dogs chasing them over the hills. A frantic terror began to overtake him because Marcus’s spirit was failing. The wound in his bad leg kept bleeding, staining through the rags Esca wrapped around it. And Marcus was already worn by weeks of toil and neglect.

“You must stay,” he murmured in the deep dark as they huddled together for warmth. Marcus had still been brittle and doubtful in his presence, and they had not essayed anything more affectionate than a helping hand or a shoulder to lean on. But he had not turned Esca away when he lay by his side during the scant hours they slept. Marcus was asleep now, his hands too cold, and Esca wrapped his fingers around them. “You must stay with me,” he repeated.

Ah, but it hurt to force Marcus to keep going, every mile becoming more and more painful. At last, he was hauling Marcus through the water, gripping his sodden clothes, wresting him over the slick rocks. Marcus tried, but at last he sank down, holding the Eagle close. “I can’t go on,” he said.

No. Esca would not allow such a thought to have life. “You just need to rest.”

But Marcus held out the Eagle and told—ordered—him to take it and leave him. Anger flared in Esca, hot and sudden. He would not let Marcus give up like this. And for Marcus to try and order him, after everything—

“I swore an oath of honor never to abandon you!” Suddenly the distance between them seemed unbridgeable, as though the arena still loomed over him and he looked up at Marcus from his sprawl on the gritty sand. “If you want me to leave, set me free. Give me my freedom.” Because he had not forgotten that. The chain might be as light as a dried flower, rustling in the wind, but it was a chain nonetheless.

Marcus’s eyes grew soft and shamed, and the anger seeped away into the river rushing beside them. He fumbled for the dagger and held it out. “You’re free,” he said. “You’re free, my friend.”

Freedom. And a friendship he had never sought but had come to cherish. Esca could not say which meant more to him.

But when he wouldn’t take the Eagle, he saw the doubt return to Marcus’s face. It would take a long time to heal the rift between them. But there was no time now—all he could do was hold Marcus for a precious instant and let all his devotion fill his voice as he said, “I will return.”

As he ran, the vast forest swallowed Marcus up behind him, and the rain sluiced down, separating them into solitary worlds filled only with their own heartbeats and the wet scent of earth and fear—for Marcus, that he would not return; for him, that he would return too late.

*

The sun hovered on the slopes of the hills, even as dusk crept into the hollows by the roadside. They walked slowly, Marcus leaning on a crude staff, his occasional stuttered breaths marking how much his leg pained him. They had no money for horses—indeed, they carried little beyond their cloaks and weapons, scrounged from the dead at the river. The Eagle had melted in the pyre, his dagger beside it. He had been surprised when Marcus laid the Eagle amid the flames, but it had been fitting to leave it there, in the land that harbored the shades of its bearers. And Marcus’s eyes had been lighter when the smoke cleared, the burden that had gnawed at his heart for so many years finally set aside.

“That’s Titus Fronto’s farm up ahead,” Marcus said. “We rode past his barley field one day, do you remember?”

Esca did, and he also recognized the stunted cluster of apple trees by the road. And round the bend—yes, there was the white rock that marked the turn to Calleva.

It shocked him, the feeling of homecoming that swept through him at the sight of the familiar landmarks, leading the way to Aquila’s villa. He glanced at Marcus—perhaps not such a surprise, after all. He thought back to when they came within sight of the Wall, and Marcus had asked, “So, what will you do now?” in a wistful voice, adding, “You are a free man. You could stay.”

“Nothing to keep me here,” he had replied, and Marcus had smiled, understanding.

They hadn’t talked much after that, for all of Marcus’s waning energy was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on staving off the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. He stumbled, now, and Esca put out a hand, steadying him.

“We’ll be there soon,” he said.

Marcus nodded, sighing and getting a firmer grip on the staff.

At last they did reach the villa, which appeared unchanged, as did Uncle Aquila, who greeted Marcus with a hug and gave Esca a considering look over his shoulder. Marcus and his uncle disappeared into the tower chamber, and Esca lingered by the stairs for a moment, listening to the faint rise and fall of their voices, until Sassticca harried him into the kitchen and plied him with meat and drink and honey-cakes, scolding and fussing at him by turns.

That night, while Esca slept, Marcus succumbed to the fever that had been lurking in the sore and swollen flesh of his leg, waiting until his will and determination eased to attack with a ravening hunger. Now that he was home, now that he could stop fighting and striving and pushing himself on, day after day, his body had given in to the waiting sickness. Esca woke to the smell of the bitter medicinal herbs that Stephanos employed, and he rushed down the corridor to Marcus’s cell to find him tossing restlessly, skin covered in the hectic flush of the fever.

The surgeon visited, and left looking grave. Uncle Aquila put his large hand on Marcus’s brow, stooping for a moment before sighing and going out to the garden. Sassticca brought cool water and cloths and bathed Marcus’s face and chest. And then finally it was only Esca, standing in the corner. He approached the bed and knelt.

“Ah, Marcus,” he murmured, laying the back of his hand against Marcus’s cheek, as though he could absorb some of the fever into his own body and make him well again. “I need you to fight again for me, my brave one.” He slipped his other hand into one of Marcus’s, holding the lax fingers. “One day we shall rest together, you and I, but not yet, not yet.”

He dragged a pallet into the room and resumed his old place, sleeping by the door, rising whenever Marcus moaned in his delirium, trying to coax the medicine down his throat. He did not allow himself to think about what might happen, confining his mind to each stir of breath, each deceitful moment when Marcus’s eyes flickered open, only to gaze at him unknowingly before sliding shut.

On the third night, he woke to a silence, absent the usual sounds of Marcus shifting uneasily in the blankets. Heart pounding, he padded over to the bed, suddenly afraid of the finality of Marcus’s dark shape, lying still and quiet. But when he put his hand on his forehead, he found Marcus’s skin cool to the touch, his hair drenched in sweat. The fever had broken at last.

Marcus stirred under him, and Esca raised him up, gave him a sip of well-watered wine. “Esca?” he asked, uncertain.

“Yes,” Esca replied, and Marcus relaxed, soon falling back into a peaceful slumber. Esca stayed by him until the stars fled to the corners of the sky, and then went to tell Sassticca that Marcus was better and would need some food that morning.

“You don’t have to sleep by the door, you know,” Marcus said later as he sat in bed, eating broth under Esca’s watchful eye.

“I would not be anywhere else,” Esca replied. “Finish that now, and I’ll fetch you some more.”

“You worry at me just as Sassticca does,” Marcus protested, but he gave Esca a smile that suggested he did not mind in the least.

He wanted to try and get up that afternoon, mouth setting into a stubborn cast when the entire household tried to dissuade him. But when Esca moved to help him—knowing the futility of trying to change his mind—his leg trembled badly, and he collapsed back down.

Esca crouched by him, quiet, feeling Marcus’s despair in the curve of his shoulders and his clenched hand.

At last Marcus stirred. “So it is all to do again,” he said and took Esca’s hand in his.

*

As Marcus regained his strength, the silences between them grew strained, like threads stretched too tightly over a loom. Unsaid words; memories of pain and a betrayal that had seemed so real, too real to be forgotten easily; a remembered muddle of arousal and comfort—these thoughts occupied them both. Esca wished to speak, but he feared it would only worsen matters, that Marcus did not wish to taste such things on his tongue. One awful morning, he had awoken Marcus, and he had flinched away, as though he expected Esca to hit him. The fear had disappeared the next second, but it had been enough to make Esca despair of ever being able to take Marcus into his arms again or beguile soft moans of satisfaction from his throat.

He recognized the watchful, waiting look in Marcus’s eyes, too. Marcus thought he was going to leave, that Esca didn’t want to remain with him.

“My leg—it will never fully heal I think,” Marcus had said one day, as he walked carefully through the garden, crutch under one arm, the other around Esca’s shoulders. “I shall not be good for much, I’m afraid.” And he had laughed, rueful but forlorn. “A lame ex-legionary with nothing to his name.”

Under Marcus’s anxious gaze, Esca had not been able to think of anything better than to say gruffly, “You are not so useless.” But since then, he had been considering, recalling what Marcus had said about taking up farming. And so he began visiting the market each day, joining in the idle conversations around the merchants’ stalls, and soon word got round that Marcus Flavius Esca (for he had taken Marcus’s _praenomen_ and _nomen_ upon becoming a freedman, as was the custom), was looking for land because his patron wished to begin breeding horses. Esca was not certain that Marcus would indeed agree to horse-breeding as a profession, but he was not about to let the idea go without at least attempting to convince him to try it for a few seasons.

It pleased him—the thought that soon he might be able to put Marcus’s doubts to rest forever—and Marcus often surprised a smile on his face, although Esca refused to tell him the reason for his good mood. He would wait until he had found the perfect spot and then bring Marcus there and let the tender grass, the mellow slopes of the hills, and the warm earth speak his devotion for him.

Each night, he continued to lie on the pallet by the door, despite Marcus’s grumblings. But one evening, after Marcus had walked to the end of the lane and back without the aid of a crutch, returning flushed and grinning, he shifted in his bed and said, “Esca, you shall not lie on the floor like a slave. I shall not have it.”

And before Esca could voice a protest, he lifted the edge of his blanket and beckoned. “Come lie beside me.” His voice wobbled a little, but his gaze remained firm.

He was not such a fool as to turn down the offer, and he rose swiftly, lest Marcus change his mind. But Marcus appeared content as he settled next to him, smiling before blowing out the candle.

Their bodies touched, but Esca could not yet do as he wished and place his hands on Marcus’s shoulders before smoothing them down his chest and then winding them lightly in his hair. What had happened between them up north—it might only have been the result of Marcus’s terror and loneliness. It might have no place here in his bed with his old armor a pace away, stored carefully in a chest for a day that would never come again.

*

The last dregs of winter were clinging to the land when Esca bade Marcus saddle his horse and ride with him. The sun was warmer that day, and shy leaves unfurled themselves from a few of the trees along the road.

“Where are we going?” Marcus asked, swinging into the saddle with only a slight wince.

“You shall see,” Esca told him and spurred his horse forward, leaving Marcus to laugh and race after him.

After a few miles, Esca led them off the road, and they skirted a copse of firs before climbing a hill. Below them lay a long meadow, already a rich, deep green, its stream burbling over its banks in an excess of spring.

“This is a fine place,” Marcus remarked, casting himself down onto the grass. “I had not seen it before, hidden as it is over this hill.”

Esca sat next to him. “There is good water and timber near to hand. And plenty of grazing for horses in the meadow.”

“Horses?” Marcus craned his head back to look at him.

“Yes.” Esca paused. “Appius Salvius is willing to sell it for a fair price.”

“Ah.” Marcus bent his head, rolling a blade of grass between his fingers. “You wish to buy it then?” He sighed. “Yes, of course you do.”

“I wish _us_ to buy it. I wish you to come with me.” He stretched his hand out towards Marcus, his fingers reaching, his palm pressed into the moist ground. “I would never go anywhere, were you not by my side.”

Marcus covered Esca’s hand with his own. “I should be glad—glad to come.”

“It will not be easy, at first,” Esca hastened to add. “Starting a farm is a toilsome business.”

“Harder than finding the Eagle?” Marcus asked, and even though he said it lightly, Esca could not help saying:

“I am sorry. Sorry for what—”

Marcus hushed him. “It is behind us.” He gestured at the hills. “Now we have tomorrow—tomorrow, Esca! And every day that follows!” And he laughed and sank back into the grass, smiling up at the sky.

He fell asleep like that, under the warm sun, and when he woke, still drowsy, he felt for Esca by his side and murmured, “ _Mi Esca sperate_.”

With those words still singing in his ears hours later when he climbed into bed next to Marcus, he dared to drift his fingers over his arm, down to his wrist which he grasped and brought to his mouth, nuzzling at the palm.

“Oh—oh, Esca.” Marcus settled his hand on Esca’s hair, and then cupped the back of his neck, curling them closer.

They did not begin a frantic search for release. It was a time instead for quieting the lonely sounds Marcus made, using his mouth to catch them on Marcus’s tongue and turn them into contented sighs; a time for letting Marcus turn him onto his stomach and bite and lick at the juncture of his neck and shoulders, an action that sent shudders tingling down his spine; a time for finding the ticklish spot on Marcus’s stomach and ending up splayed out, pinned down by large hands, both laughing until Marcus kissed his brow and trailed a finger down his nose, gentle and undemanding.

At last, hushed voices turned to sleepy murmurs, and Marcus’s head drifted down Esca’s chest, growing heavier as slumber overtook him.

Esca was tired too, but he stayed awake awhile longer, arm clasping Marcus close. He wondered if Marcus’s gods watched over their child this evening.

“See, I kept him safe,” he whispered to them. And he added a prayer to his own gods to help him protect his Marcus and keep him loved and cared for through all the cold mornings when rain lashed the walls, the slow dawns spent crouched under the bracken waiting for a hart to break cover, the still evenings of birdsong in the summer, and all the days of their life together.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Solamen_ means “solace” and was used by Romans as a noun of affectionate address. So Marcus is calling Esca his solace. I believe that _mi Esca sperate_ means “my longed-for Esca.” I know that “Sperate” could be used alone as a form of address to mean “longed-for,” so hopefully it makes sense that way, too. Also, I hope I got the Roman naming conventions correct—it sounds a little awkward with “Esca” as the name, but I do like the thought of him taking Marcus’s name!


End file.
